


A Suitable Arrangement

by anotherdiana



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Canon Era, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Unfinished, raoul's father is an abusive dick, sort of married
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-01-11 18:48:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherdiana/pseuds/anotherdiana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik/Raoul slash. Raoul's father is still alive, and he decides to sell his least favourite son into marriage. Erik isn't exactly opposed to this idea. (Neither of them are in love with Christine in this story, but she'll still make the occasional appearance.) Yes, I've realised this is a very silly idea for a fic. I'm going to do it anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which An Offer is Made

Raoul scowled as they walked to their box. Today had been a really rubbish day.

Christine hadn’t known that her words would get him into trouble, of course. She’d meant them as a compliment. _It’s such a shame you don’t play anymore, Raoul. Father said you were the most promising student he ever taught._ But the sneer on his father’s face told him just how the words had been taken. The day he had destroyed his son’s violin was obviously as fresh in his mind as it was in Raoul’s. His words had followed the usual pattern of ‘ _No son of mine_ …’

Raoul was sure another such variation was headed his way now. _No son of mine will socialise with a common chorus girl_ , perhaps.

Or not…

“A pretty little thing, that girl.” A calculating look in his direction. “Have you had her yet?”

Raoul’s walk faltered and he had to take a double step to catch up.

“No! Of course not. Miss Daae is a friend, and nothing more.” If only he weren’t such an easy blusher.

His father hmphed.

“No, of course you haven’t. God forbid you have a bit of proper, manly fun. No, it might take you away from your sewing.”

Raoul’s cheeks coloured even more. There was no point arguing that he didn’t sew. His father saw his unwillingness to bed any and every young woman he met as further proof of his unmanliness. Luckily there was no more time for insults as they entered Box 5 to find Philippe waiting for them. His father’s jabs were diminished, although still constant, in his eldest son’s presence.

“Philippe, my boy! We’ve just been chatting to Raoul’s lady friend! I was going to suggest he join her in the ballet. Put him in a tutu, and he would fit right in, don’t you think?” His father laughed at his own joke.

“Oh, now!” Philippe responded light-heartedly. “Don’t be so unkind, father. It isn’t Raoul’s fault he’s so pretty.” He winked at his young brother behind their father’s back.

Raoul scowled again, but it was mostly for show this time. Philippe’s friendly jokes were much easier to bear than his father’s cruel, unending disappointment in him as a son.

His father took his seat next to Philippe, and Raoul quickly sat on his brother’s other side.

“Now, why aren’t you sitting with that red haired girl tonight? The one with the rather large…” His father made an obscene gesture and Raoul tried his best to ignore the conversation as Philippe waved a dismissive hand carelessly, almost smacking him in the face.

“Oh, Antonia. No, that’s over. But I have arranged to meet Cecile in the interval, I hope you won’t mind me abandoning you!”

His father chuckled.

“That’s my boy, don’t let them get a grip on you! No, no, you go and have fun. Have we met Cecile? No, I’m sure we haven’t. Well perhaps she has a drab sister you can introduce to your brother, eh?” He turned his attention to his younger son. “Think you could find your way about a woman like that, Raoul? You shouldn’t have a problem, you’re enough of a woman yourself!”

Raoul was spared from answering as the lights dimmed and a stagehand began to light the stage lights, but he was comforted to feel Philippe’s sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

The first half passed in a blur. Christine was radiant, as she always was, and La Carlotta was in tune, if nothing else. A few times, Raoul caught his father watching Christine with a predatory gaze, and felt a surge of hot anger rise through him. Philippe had his eyes fixed on Christine’s pretty blonde friend, as he did every time they attended the Opera Populaire. All too soon, the interval was upon them, and Philippe was standing up.

“Well, mustn’t keep Cecile waiting! I’ll be back before the second half.” He leaned down to pick up his jacket from the back of the chair, and used the opportunity to whisper in his brother’s ear. “Sorry to leave you with him, Raoul. Don’t take any of it to heart.”

Easier said than done.

“Ha, good luck, my boy! Not that you need it, eh?”

 _Popular, perfect Philippe_ Raoul thought, bitterly, before banishing such ungenerous thoughts about his brother, feeling ashamed of himself.

“Well, now. Why can’t you go and find yourself a girl, rather than traipsing around the opera house all day, watching the dancers and fawning over the musicians?”

Raoul turned his head away to look over the railing, determined not to rise to the bait.

It worked until he felt a sharp slap on his cheek.

“Well, then? Answer me when I speak to you.”

Raoul kept his eyes lowered, trying to keep his temper, trying not to provoke.

“I don’t _fawn_.” He bit out. This earned him another slap.

“God only knows why I put up with you, insolent, ungrateful boy. We should have stopped after Lucille. At least then your mother would still be with us, God rest her soul. Or you could have done us the good service of being a daughter, not this charade of a man you play at.”

Raoul felt tears burning his eyes, but blinked them back, determined to show no further weakness in front of his father. The last thing he needed was to give him another reason to insult him.

“I’m so sorry I don’t live up to your standards,” he snapped, “but it’s hardly my fault if-”

Another slap.

“Silence! Always excuses with you, isn’t it? It isn’t your fault if you look like a girl, well, Philippe came from the same seed and he turned out well, didn’t he? Sometimes I wonder if you really are my child at all, but then you look so like your sisters that there really can be no doubt. Although Lord knows I never had this trouble with them. But you! You are too effeminate by far. You have no interest in any manly activities. It is always music and dancing,”

“Philippe dances too! All gentlemen dance!” Raoul cut in furiously.

“Enough! You don’t like to shoot, you can’t hold your liquor, you won’t even take a cigar after dinner, you’d prefer to be sitting with the women discussing dresses and whatnot! And you never even look at a woman except those chorus girls, and then you claim not to have an interest in them. You are a woman in every way but the most important! At least if I _did_ have another daughter, I’d be able to marry you off like your sisters, but no, how could I get a good match for a poor excuse for a son? No one would take you, even if I gave a dowry! Not that I’d spend a single penny on you, even if some poor fool forgave your sex and consented to take you as a wife! And a fool he would have to be! You are more woman than man, it is true, but I doubt anyone would find you woman enough to be satisfying! Except perhaps Lord Maybrook, I’m sure!” The Comte let out a bitter laugh.

“Maybe I should offer to sell you to him, although I doubt he’d want you. If only someone would pay to take you away from me!”

The voice, beautiful and cold, seemed to come from the walls themselves.

“Perhaps, Comte, I can make you an offer?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always been a bit iffy on how the whole Comte/Vicomte thing works. I had thought a Comte and a Vicomte were completely separate things, and yet it seems that when Philippe dies, Raoul upgrades to a Comte? So for the purpose of this story, I've made shit up. Their father is a Comte, and both Raoul and Philippe are Vicomtes. Also I'm so new to this writing thing, so please correct any mistakes I make, and criticism will be gratefully received (although flames will not!)


	2. In Which A Price is Agreed

_The voice, beautiful and cold, seemed to come from the walls themselves._

_“Perhaps, Comte, I can make you an offer?”_

* * *

 

Both Raoul and his father jumped to their feet, looking around the box and finding no one present.

“Who’s there? Show yourself!” barked the Comte.

A soft chuckle danced around them.

“Why, Monsieur! Do you not recognise me? But we have not been formally introduced. I trust you received my note this morning, although I see you have ignored my request.”

It was the Comte’s turn to laugh.

“Ah! The elusive Phantom of the Opera!”

“Good. You do know me. Well, what is your answer?”

The Comte scowled. The conversation was obviously confusing him.

“My answer. To your note?”

“No, no. Although I _am_ rather put out that you did not leave Box 5 empty, as I instructed,” the Phantom’s voice was mocking, as though he were speaking to a child, “But no matter, all will be forgiven, as long as you prove more willing to negotiate now. Will you accept an offer for your son?”

“Are you serious?! What would a _ghost_ want from a worthless boy like Raoul?”

“I assure you, Monsieur, I am no ghost. I am merely a man. I could find plenty of uses for your son.” The Phantom’s next words sounded so close that Raoul had to turn abruptly to ensure the man wasn’t standing right behind him.

“Such a _lovely_ boy.”

Raoul was started to feel decidedly uncomfortable.

“Very well.” The Comte replied briskly. “Let’s set a price.”

“ _WHAT_?” Raoul could not believe his ears. “ _Are you mad_?”

“Quiet, boy.” His father snapped, holding up a hand to silence him.

“I’m your _son_! You can’t… you can’t just _sell_ me, like… like…”

“Like a painting.” The Phantom supplied helpfully. “Or a woman.”

The Comte failed to notice the sarcasm in the Opera Ghost’s voice at this last part.

“Precisely! You see, Raoul? You are a daughter after all. More or less. Well, Monsieur Le Phantom, I’ll want a good price.”

“Name it.”

The Comte bounced on the balls of his feet as he considered.

“I gave each of my daughters a dowry of 50,000 francs. I’d rather like to make it back. So Monsieur, we’ll say 100,000 francs and he’s yours.”

Raoul’s mouth fell open in shock. He couldn’t even manage an indignant reply, he was rendered speechless with outrage.

“Done.” The Phantom replied instantly. “I shall have your money within 10 minutes.”

“Well, fancy that! Who would have thought I could get such a price for you?” The Comte looked far too pleased with himself. “If I’d known, I’d have sold you off years ago!”

“This is ridiculous. You’ve gone mad.” Raoul made to push the curtain aside and exit the box. “Philippe won’t allow-”

The Comte drew his pistol and levelled it at his son’s head.

“Sit down, boy.”

Raoul froze, stunned. His father wouldn’t shoot him. Would he?

The Comte gestured towards the seats.

“Sit. As soon as that money’s in my hand, you’re all his. You can be someone else’s embarrassment for a change.”

The harsh words hurt a lot more when they were accompanied by harsh actions. His father really didn’t care what happened to him from this point. Even the instinctive parental urge to protect his child seemed to have gone from their relationship. If it had ever existed.

Raoul walked toward the front of the box, as calmly as he could manage, his hands balled into fists to stop them trembling. He was being sold off to a stranger as if he were no more than another man’s property. Of course, in the eyes of the law, he was. He had been his father’s property, and would have been until he came of age. And now he belonged to this man, this Phantom.

As he rounded the seats, Raoul stopped short. Sitting on his seat was a sleek black case. He stared down at it in surprise. When had it appeared there?

“Open it.” His father came up behind him and peered down at the case suspiciously.

Raoul snapped open the latches to reveal a multitude of 100 franc notes. He knew if he counted them, there would be exactly 1000 of them.

He was almost tempted to empty the whole case over the railing onto the audience below them, and might have done it if not for the gun still in his father’s hand.

“Leave.” The Phantom was back.

The Comte wasted no time closing the case and pocketing his pistol.

“Well, goodbye Raoul. I’ve no doubt this will be the last time I see you.”

And with that, he strolled out of the box, and left his son to the mercy of a man who was both a stranger, and quite possibly a madman.

Raoul stared after him in shock for a few moments, before dazedly turning around.

He stifled a scream as he came face to face with a terrifying figure. The Phantom, dressed all in black, was several inches taller than him. In fact, Raoul’s eyes were perfectly level with the man’s mouth. He instantly looked upwards to avoid staring at the man’s lips, but quickly dropped his gaze again when he saw that half the man’s face was covered by a porcelain mask. That was no better, because now he was staring at the man’s chest. He felt a blush spread across his cheeks.

He decided to avoid the situation altogether by squeezing his eyes shut. He wished the man wouldn’t stand so close. He cut an imposing figure, being so tall and broad. He was far bigger than Raoul, and obviously was well-built under that cloak. Raoul felt his blush deepen at the thought.

He was just coming to the conclusion that he would have to open his eyes eventually, when an arm seized him around the waist, and he was swept away, feet barely touching the ground.

They came to a halt after mere seconds, and Raoul blinked, trying to adjust to the darkness he now found himself in. The only light came from a large lantern hanging from a hook on the wall beside them, and they seemed to be in a narrow stone passageway, although he’d never seen such a thing in the opera house before.

The Phantom was stood directly in front of him, concern etched onto the visible side of his face.

He grasped Raoul’s arm with one hand, and leaned closer.

“Are you alright?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how much money was worth back then. 100,000 francs might be a ridiculously huge amount of money, or it might barely be enough to buy a jar of mayonnaise. Needless to say, this isn't shaping up to be a particularly historically accurate fic.


	3. In Which A Name is Learned

_He grasped Raoul’s arm with one hand, and leaned closer._

_“Are you alright?”_

* * *

 

“What?” Raoul replied.

“Are you alright?” The Phantom raised his other hand to softly touch Raoul’s face.

Raoul could only stare back vacantly.

“…He hit you.” The Phantom prompted, fingers still brushing along the younger man’s cheek.

“Oh, yes.” He’d already forgotten. “Yes, I’m fine. It doesn’t hurt much.”

“There will likely be a bruise.”

“I doubt it.” Raoul shook his head slightly. “He hardly ever hits me hard enough to leave a mark. At least not where it might be seen.”

“He hits you often.” It was a statement more than a question, and Raoul recoiled at the anger flashing through the other man’s eyes.

“He is a very strict man.”

“And your siblings. Does he hit them too?”

Raoul paused.

“No.” He replied, quietly.

“I see.” The Phantom’s voice was clipped.

How could a voice be so beautiful, and yet so terrible? Raoul was glad he was not in his father’s place right now. He could only imagine the damage this strange creature could do when truly angered.

“It hardly matters anymore. I belong to you now.”

The Phantom raised an elegant eyebrow.

“Those words should fill me with joy, and yet I feel you are reproaching me.”

“No!” Raoul was quick to answer. “No, of course not! You are not at fault, it is only my father who has done wrong.”

“And yet you despise me for buying you from him, for putting a price on you. But I would have paid any amount to take you away from such violence. I cannot regret it, I would do it again without question. Still, if it comes at the cost of your happiness…” He trailed off, looking dejected. Suddenly he cried, “But you _can_ learn to be happy with me, Raoul! You can!”

“I know, I know! I can. I will!” Raoul cursed himself internally. Was he to fail at everything he did? He had not been in this man’s possession five minutes, and already he had proved himself less than satisfactory. Perhaps he truly was as worthless as his father believed.

The Phantom seized both his hands, and held them to his own chest, staring into his eyes for several long moments, before releasing one of his hands to take the lantern from the wall. Raoul had the uneasy feeling that he had been looking straight into his mind.

“Come.”

He set a brisk pace down the passageway, never letting go of Raoul’s hand, never allowing him to stumble. They took turn after turn, always going down, and passed dozens of other passages. _How easy it would be to get lost here, and never find your way out,_ Raoul thought.

The further down they travelled, probably far below the opera house, the colder it got. Raoul shivered, wishing he hadn’t left his coat in the cloakroom. The Phantom looked back at him curiously. He shivered again, unable to suppress it. Comprehension dawned on the other man’s face, and he stopped, setting down the lantern. He quickly took off his own cloak, and threw it around Raoul, fastening it at his neck. Then he picked up the lantern, took Raoul’s hand again, and continued on their journey without a word.

Finally, their descent slowed, and then stopped, and the passage began to widen. Light began to pour in, and soon the passage opened into a vast cavern. Raoul could only gape. The cavern was enormous, at least three stories high. They had come out onto the side of a lake, which seemed to stretch on forever into the darkness. The walls were hewn straight into rock, and across the cavern Raoul could see a few more passageways leading off. There was a small boat tied to the shore, and in the centre of the land there was an organ, larger than any Raoul had ever seen in a church.

It was eerily beautiful.

Suddenly, Raoul had a thought. This was the Phantom of the Opera. The rumours said that the Ghost haunted the opera house, that he resided in the cellars. Could it be that _this_ was his home? Was this cavern where Raoul would be spending his foreseeable future? Surely not.

He looked around for any furniture that might indicate that this cavern was lived in. There was very little. Again, his eyes settled on the massive instrument in the centre.

The Phantom noticed his gaze.

“The acoustics are better out here.” He said gruffly.

Out here. So this was not his home then.

“This way.” They circled behind the organ, to the back of the chamber, and into another passageway. Candles had been lit along this passage, and rough stone soon gave way to smooth brickwork. Soon the passage ended, and Raoul found himself in a sitting room.

It was very large. In fact, it would have been uncomfortably large if it hadn’t been so full. A piano sat at the far end of the room, and there was a huge desk, several armchairs, even a sofa. The walls were lined with bookcases, and they were all spilling over with books. He would certainly find no time to be bored in this place.

As he stared around the room, the Phantom watched him awkwardly. He seemed uneasy.

“It is no country estate, no manor fit for a Vicomte.”

Oh, so that was why he was embarrassed. For the first time that day, a genuine smile lit up Raoul’s face.

“It’s lovely.” He replied simply. Truthfully.               

“I am glad you like it.”

Raoul’s cheeks reddened, and he looked at the floor.

The Phantom frowned. The boy had been subdued ever since he had taken him from Box 5. It was not like him to be so quiet. From what he had seen while watching him in the opera house, he was loud and boisterous. He laughed easily, and was never timid around the musicians and dancers. He was full of life. Could he have killed his spirits so easily? Turned him into a mere shade of his true self, simply by bringing him here?

“I am sure you would rather I had not brought you here. You would rather be at home with your family, not here with a stranger. I know that it is a lot to of ask of you-”

The Vicomte blushed furiously again, and understanding crashed over him as to why the boy was acting so shyly.

Once again, he took Raoul’s hands in his own.

“Raoul, I know that you understand why I have brought you here. I am enraptured by you. I wanted you as my own. When your father sold you to me, he was in essence giving me your hand. But Raoul, I wish you to be happy. Know that I would never…”

Here the Phantom paused. How to put this delicately?

“I will not force you into a relationship that I know you are not comfortable with. I am content with your company. I ask only… but it is a lot to ask. I ask that you simply allow me to be close to you, always.”

Raoul gazed at him in wonder. Who would have thought the infamous Opera Ghost could be so kind?

“What is your name?” Raoul asked, impulsively.

The other man stared at him for several seconds.

“It… has been a long time since anyone asked me that.”

“Well, you are my husband, are you not?” Raoul said shyly. “Shouldn’t I know what to call you?”

“My name… my name is Erik.”

“Erik.” Raoul repeated it back to him, and gave a dazzling smile. “It is very nice.”

Erik swallowed uncomfortably.

“Then, there is… something you must see. Better now. You’d see soon enough anyway.”

Raoul’s smile vanished as quickly as it had come.

“I don’t-”

“It is the reason I live here, under the opera house. Locked away from the world. It is why I am hidden, and it is what I hide.” He reached a hand up, fingertips just grazing the edge of his mask, building up the courage to show his face and destroy what little trust Raoul had in him.

“It is what you hide under your mask.” Raoul stated simply.

“You must have wondered.”

“Of course,” Raoul said hurriedly, “only, I don’t think I am quite prepared. I can’t even imagine… what can be so horrible you must hide from everyone?”

Erik lowered his hand, leaving the mask in place.

“Yes, perhaps it would be too much of a shock, to show you with no warning. It is… simply put, I am deformed. Only my face, only the half I keep covered. When you see it, you will understand _why_ I cover it. As a child, my mother refused to look upon my face. I was given a mask before I was even out of my cradle. It is… barely even a face. When you see it, you will cease to think of me as a man. You will think of me as a monster, a demon from hell. You will hate me, and nothing I do will ever decrease your loathing of me.”

“I see. I think I am ready now.” Raoul whispered, trying to keep the tremor from his voice. He was not remotely successful.

Erik doubted the boy would ever be ready. He was trembling, wide-eyed and terrified, and this at only a description of his deformity! What would happen when he saw it for himself? But no point wasting time. The mask couldn’t stay on forever.

Carefully, Erik reached up and removed his mask.

“Oh.” Raoul let out a shuddering breath. “ _Oh_.” Slowly, he started to laugh, small, breathless gasps that Erik couldn’t comprehend.

Perhaps the boy had gone mad.

“Is that all? And you scared me so! I had thought I would faint from fright, the way you talked about it!” In Raoul's childish mind, he had been expecting a literal monster, not merely a disfigured man. He was quickly calming down from his self-induced terror. He had stopped shaking, although he still sounded rather breathless. His relief was obvious.

He stepped forward, raising his left hand to the level of the older man’s face.

“May I?” He asked.

Erik nodded slowly, unsure.

Raoul gently touched the deformed side of his face.

“Does it hurt?” He asked.

“It feels no different to the other side.” Erik answered cautiously; still half fearful this may be some strange joke on the boy’s part.

Raoul continued to run his hand over the misshapen skin. Slowly, timidly, he stepped even closer, and raising himself up on his toes, leant in and placed a gentle kiss on his horrible cheek. He lowered his hand and stepped back, ducking his head shyly.

“I think you’re very handsome.” He offered, and Erik could not doubt the sincerity in his voice.

Words failed him for a few moments. He was overcome by emotion.

“I’ll… show you to our room.” He said eventually, turning away so that Raoul wouldn’t see the tears filling his eyes.

The bedroom was as beautiful as the sitting room had been, Raoul noted. There were intricate tapestries and heavy drapes hung on the walls, and the furniture was a rich, deep mahogany. In pride of place was a large bed, probably big enough for four people, let alone two, but Raoul still blushed at the thought of sleeping so close to this man.

He looked away from the bed and saw Erik watching him, seemingly entranced by the blush on his cheeks. Raoul cleared his throat awkwardly and the other man broke out of his trance, handing over one of the nightshirts he had in his hands.

“It will be a little big for you, I’m afraid, but it will have to suffice for now.”

“Thank you.”

They turned away from each other as they quickly changed, Erik dropping his clothes into a large hamper, Raoul carefully folding his onto the chair by what would apparently be ‘his side’ of the bed. He’d be needing the clothes tomorrow, as nothing Erik owned would fit him.

As soon as he was done, he joined Erik in the bed, positioning himself on his side so that he was facing the other man. They were both lying near the centre of the bed, so there was barely half a foot between them. Raoul had to remind himself to breathe as Erik reached over and ran a gentle hand through his hair before leaning back to blow out the one candle left burning.

It was a long while before either man managed to fall asleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter seemed to be nothing but description. I guess you can't have a Phantom fic without a figurative tour of Erik's lair.
> 
> And notice that Erik pre-warned Raoul rather than just ripping off his mask? I feel that's where he's been going wrong all these years.


	4. In Which Erik Explains A Few Things

_Raoul had to remind himself to breathe as Erik reached over and ran a gentle hand through his hair before leaning back to blow out the one candle left burning._

_It was a long while before either man managed to fall asleep._

* * *

 

Raoul had never shared a bed with anyone before, but, he decided as he woke, he liked it immensely.

Sometime during the night, they’d ended up pressed chest to chest, seeking each other out in their sleep.

Erik’s arms were warm where they were wrapped around his waist, and Raoul was undeniably comfortable with his cheek resting against Erik’s shoulder. He had a sudden, embarrassing urge to tangle their legs together.

Raoul had always been a late riser, often lying in bed for hours after he had woken, unwilling to leave warm, soft sheets for the cold morning air. Why change now? He kept his eyes closed, and buried his face further into Erik’s neck.

His sleepy brain registered that Erik was probably now awake, since he could feel soothing circles being rubbed into his back, but he had neither the energy nor the desire to acknowledge the fact. Perhaps if he just kept his eyes closed forever, he wouldn’t have to deal with the confusing feelings he was now confronted with.

On the one hand, he couldn’t deny that he was enjoying being pressed against this man. He was certainly attractive, despite his deformity, and thus far he had shown himself to be kind, considerate and gentle. Raoul knew he could have done far worse for himself. But on the other hand, he had been _bought_. Surely on principle alone he should be railing against this facsimile of a marriage. He was, in effect, no more than an object for this man’s enjoyment.

Should he be fighting against it? His father would, in his situation. But then it was his father who had _put_ him in this situation. His father, who saw him as nothing more than a disappointment. A mistake to be disposed of.

He opened his eyes as Erik pulled back, gently disentangling himself from the younger man, then throwing off the covers and standing.

“What time is it?” Raoul asked, sleep making his voice thick.

“Rather late, I am afraid. If we don’t get up now, we’ll waste the whole morning.”

Raoul honestly wouldn’t have objected to wasting the whole morning, and the afternoon as well, but he complied and got out of bed, stretching to relieve his cramped muscles.

Erik directed him to a small washroom, and he took his clothes with him to dress.

When he came out, he found Erik already dressed and shaved, mask once more in place.

 _There must be another washroom,_ Raoul thought idly as he took in his companion’s perfect appearance. He knew that he must look much less put-together. His clothes, although he had folded them tidily the night before, were decidedly crumpled, and he had the beginnings of stubble on his cheek.

Erik frowned, clearly thinking the same thing.

“Perhaps your first order of business should be to retrieve your belongings. I have a few small matters to attend to here, but I can send for a carriage to take you.”

Raoul was slightly taken aback. He had assumed he would be something of a prisoner here.

“Aren’t you worried I’ll run away?” He blurted out without thinking.

Erik raised an eyebrow.

“Are you planning to?” He asked simply.

“Well, no…” Raoul replied, hesitantly, “but I can’t imagine why you’d trust me not to.”

“Raoul, my love, I don’t believe you would want to leave. After all, where would you go? Back to your father? No. But if you did wish to leave, you would not need to run away. I assure you, should your life here become unbearable, you are free to leave at any time you choose.”

Raoul could only stare. Was this really the man who had sent his father such threatening notes? The man who had left dead rats in Carlotta’s dressing room, and who had terrorised the new managers ever since they had arrived? How could a man who would drop scenery on an entire cast with no thought to safety be the same man now stood before him, full of charm and gentility?

“Did you really put rats in La Carlotta’s dressing room?” He asked, unthinking. He felt his face heat up. Why could he not control his tongue?

Erik seemed a little confused at the question. Clearly he had not followed Raoul’s train of thought.

“I did.”

“Why?” Raoul asked.

“Well… because it was funny, I suppose. And because I dislike her.” Erik answered as honestly as he could.

It was clear he did not overthink his actions, nor their consequences. He was obviously an impulsive man.

“Oh. I don’t like her much either. But I don’t see how leaving dead rats for her to find will improve her character.”

“Likely it won’t. But it may yet induce her to leave, and that will do us all a lot of good. I have been training a new soprano to take her place. She is coming along well, and I believe that she will soon be of a standard to take over from Carlotta.” Erik seemed pleased with himself.

“I imagine you must always get what you want, they are all so afraid of you. Except my father, of course, who refuses to give up his box. I wonder that you have never forced him. He puts a lot of money into the Opera Populaire. If you threatened his investment, he would be sure to relent.”

“Perhaps,” Erik nodded, “or perhaps his pride would overcome his common sense. Men like him do not take well to being threatened. Besides, what would be the point in harming my opera house for the sake of irritating your father? He may never relinquish Box 5, but he has given me something infinitely more valuable. He has given me his son.”

Raoul lowered his head.

“I doubt he will consider it much of a loss.”

“Not yet, no. But he will.” Erik smiled at Raoul, gently. “Your absence is not something he can hide. And as I have no intention of causing your disappearance from society, he cannot claim you have died, or left Paris. He will have to admit to what he has done. Your father has gained 100,000 francs, but he has lost his reputation.”

Raoul was confused. Society knowing that he had been sold into marriage was embarrassing for him, certainly, but surely not damaging to his father.

“He was within the law. Parents often arrange marriages for their children, especially in wealthy families. It ensures a good match. It is unusual for a suitor to _pay_ for a marriage, but not illegal.”

Erik gave a dangerous smile.

“But your father did not _arrange_ a marriage. He made an impulsive decision to sell you at the first offer. I was a stranger to you, an older man who could easily have meant to take advantage of you. You father did not know my intentions. Perhaps his friends and business associates will not think less of him for it, but their wives will. What woman will let her husband do business with a man who would sell his own son to a stranger? Raoul, your father has made a grave mistake. Fortunately, it is a mistake that has worked greatly in my favour.”

Erik smiled once more, kindly this time, and pulled Raoul close to him.

“Whether your father realises it or not, he has lost something a great deal more precious than his reputation.”

Erik placed a soft kiss on top of his head, and Raoul got the impression that the conversation was over. There was likely no point arguing anyway, this strange man seemed to think the world of him.

 

 


	5. In Which Raoul Explores His Feelings

_Raoul got the impression that the conversation was over. There was likely no point arguing anyway, this strange man seemed to think the world of him._

* * *

 

They had a quick breakfast in Erik’s surprisingly well-stocked kitchen, and then headed back up to the opera house using the same passage they had arrived through. Erik obviously took a few different turns, although Raoul could not tell where, as instead of coming out into Box 5, they ended up very near the main entrance.

Before Raoul stepped out of the passage into the corridor, Erik pressed a sweet kiss to his cheek, causing a fluttering sensation in Raoul’s stomach. Raoul smiled shyly, and ducked his head. He assured Erik once again that _no_ , he didn’t mind being left on his own and _yes_ , he had enough money for a carriage, and at last stepped out into the corridor, alone. 

It was only a matter of minutes before he was in a carriage, and finally able to ponder the thrills that went through him every time he thought of his… husband, for want of a better word.

_Was married life meant to be like this_ , Raoul wondered. He had not thought such simple domesticity could ignite this kind of excitement in him. The excitement that stemmed from knowing that every moment might bring tender glances, gentle caresses from his spouse. These feelings running through him were completely new. 

He longed to know more about Erik. His past, his dreams, his every thought. To know what his lips would feel like against his own. Raoul blushed just thinking about it. But how to initiate such contact?

He had always imagined that when he married, it would be some sweet girl he had courted for a year or so. That they would wait for their wedding night, and (although he could not say he had given it too much thought) be consumed with longing for one another.

But his wedding night had been and gone. Erik would not initiate any sort of… intimacy. That much, at least, was certain. He was so sure that Raoul would not want to engage in any physical contact with his enforced partner, that he would probably never even broach the subject.

And, if he was honest with himself, Raoul was not even sure how much of that physical contact he wanted. He was well aware _how_ two men would engage in such activities. He was not so naïve as that. But did he want to do those things with Erik?

He closed his eyes and tried to picture it. Erik, mask off, coattails discarded. He imagined pressing his lips to Erik’s - he would have to lean up to do it - and feeling Erik draw him closer. Erik would deepen the kiss, push his tongue into Raoul’s mouth. He imagined himself unbuttoning Erik’s shirt, sliding it off his shoulders, running his hands over that firm, pale chest. And their hips, pressed together, friction that would make him moan…

His eyes snapped open. He was well aware that his breathing was ragged, and his cheeks were flushed. He squirmed in his seat. The back of a carriage perhaps wasn’t the best place to be having such thoughts. He leaned back against the headrest, and looked out of the small window, trying to slow his racing heartbeat.

At least he had answered _that_ question. Raoul licked his lips. He could almost _taste_ Erik there. But he was no closer to figuring out how to instigate the contact. He certainly couldn’t _ask_ Erik for it. He would probably die of embarrassment before he managed to say a single word. But then how? Should he just… kiss him? Raoul blushed even more at the thought. His inexperience would certainly show, and if Erik didn’t kiss back straight away then he would lose his nerve and probably never try again.

Raoul groaned in frustration. One thing was certain - he wouldn’t survive another night pressed against Erik now that he’d had such thoughts running through his head. In fact, he very much doubted he’d even be able to look the other man in the eye without picturing him in all sorts of compromising situations.

 

 


	6. In Which Raoul Stands Up To His Father

_One thing was certain - he wouldn’t survive another night pressed against Erik now that he’d had such thoughts running through his head. In fact, he very much doubted he’d even be able to look the other man in the eye without picturing him in all sorts of compromising situations._

* * *

  
Absorbed by his thoughts, Raoul was taken by surprise when they pulled up at the entrance to his father’s manor. It looked different, somehow. As if he were looking at it through a stranger’s eyes. This surely wasn’t his childhood home? It was just a fine house belonging to a rich man.

He climbed down from the carriage, refusing the driver’s offer of assistance, and stood nervously at the bottom of the steps. His father wouldn’t even be home at this time of day, why was he so anxious?

He couldn’t stand here all day. He would have to go in.

Right on cue, the housekeeper came bustling out, a maternal frown on her face.

“Well, Vicomte, and here you are. And looking worse for wear on top of it! Mariah said she saw you from the window, standing in the yard like a spectre. I hardly believed it! And your father told us you wouldn’t be coming home! Well, we all assumed the worst, of course! But Monsieur, you must come in, you’ll be hungry, of course. My, you must have a quite a story to tell. We’ve been worried sick, that we have!”

Raoul closed his eyes briefly, feeling battered from the onslaught.

He determined to pack his belongings, and leave as quickly as he could.

“Madame, you are kind, as always. But I am afraid I haven’t time to eat. I’ve only come to collect my possessions, and I’ll be on my way again. I could use help carrying the trunks, if there are any men about.”

“Well, I’ll fetch Michel and Luc, and the stableboy, if I can find him. But Monsieur, truly, you cannot mean to leave. Where would you go?!”

Raoul swallowed. They would learn soon enough anyway. And better they learn the truth from him, than a lie from his father.

“I have a new home, Madame. With my- with…” Oh, how to explain it? What would people make of this arrangement his father had engineered?

The housekeeper, God bless her, noticed his distress and dropped any pretence of formality, rushing over to him and gathering him in her arms, as if he were a little boy again.

He inhaled shakily, feeling close to tears, trying to compose himself, when all he really wanted to do was run and hide, the way he used to do as a child when he was scared.

“Now, it can’t be as bad as that, young master!”

Raoul smiled slightly at hearing that. It had been years since anyone had called him ‘young master’.

“No, Madame.” He pulled away and stood straighter, determined to show no more embarrassment at his situation. “It is not so bad at all. Only… not everyone will share that opinion. You know my father is not a loving man.”

The housekeeper shifted from one foot to the other, unsure if she should agree, or pretend to defend her employer.

“No, you know it’s true. He was not a doting father, especially not to me. You know that he arranged marriages for both of my sisters as soon as they were of a suitable age. Well, he has done the same to me.”

The housekeeper gasped in delight.

“Monsieur, so you are to be wed?!”

“It has already occurred. Father asked a price for my hand, and when it was agreed, he closed the deal as soon as he could.” Raoul tried not to sound bitter, but the idea of being sold still rankled.

“And the lady, Monsieur, is she-“

“No.” Raoul interrupted, quietly. “It… is not that kind of marriage. Money exchanged hands. I became another man’s property. It is not the kind of marriage that could be confirmed in a church.”

The housekeeper looked at him in silence for a long while, sadness in her eyes. Raoul tried not to allow sadness to show in his.

“He sold you to another man?” She spoke in a whisper, almost too quiet for Raoul to hear.

He nodded in response.

“Monsieur, I do not know what to say. You poor, young boy.”

Raoul could not stomach her pity a moment longer. He tried to make his voice as light and cheery as he could.

“Madame, do not fret! I cannot complain about the outcome. It is merely the concept of being sold that upsets me, not the choice of partner. I have been married to a very respectable man. He is kind, Madame. I think you would approve of him.”

It was the truth, at least.

She nodded, still looking unsure, and began to usher him up the steps and into the house.

“Well, if you are happy, then I’m sure I am delighted for you. But I still say that you look a mess.”

“Which is precisely why I have come to collect my things!” Raoul leaned in conspiratorially. “Preferably _before_ my father gets home.”

“Of course. _MICHEL_!”

Raoul jumped at her sudden holler.

The footman appeared almost instantly.

“What’s all the yellin’ for? Oh- sorry, Monsieur le Vicomte, I didn’t know you was here.”

“Michel, find Luc and together bring down some of the trunks from the attic, you hear? And quick about it too. Monsieur le Vicomte is leaving in a hurry, and he doesn’t have time for your dawdling.”

She turned to Raoul and gave a wry smile.

“My apologies, Vicomte. I’ve never know such a lazy boy! You’d think he was allergic to hard work!”

Raoul couldn’t help but smile. Michel was the housekeeper’s son, and he knew that she loved him dearly, no matter how she talked.

He thanked her, and left her to her work, making his way upstairs to his rooms.

He’d barely walked through the door when Michel and Luc came in, each carrying an empty trunk.

“There’s more, Monsieur, if you need ‘em.”

“Thank you, Michel. I think I might need another one at least.”

He rolled up his sleeves and got to work. He started with his clothes, and soon one of the trunks was completely full. He was only packing his nicest clothes, and leaving the rest, but he still seemed to have more than he could possibly need. He packed books next, only his favourites. And the portrait he had of his mother. Toiletries, bottles of cologne, a set of beautiful silver razors which had been a gift from his brother on his sixteenth birthday. He had amassed a huge amount of trinkets over the course of his life. He packed only the ones that he treasured most - the gifts, and reminders of happy days.

Satisfied with the work he had done so far, he called for Michel and Luc, and instructed them to carry two of the trunks down to the carriage. The third was almost full, and he looked around carefully to make sure he had not forgotten anything important. Only one thing remained to be packed.

Suddenly he heard the housekeeper’s voice.

“Oh, Monsieur le Comte! You _are_ home early, I’m afraid lunch isn’t cooked yet, Monsieur.” Her voice was overly loud, no doubt for Raoul’s benefit.

“No worry, Hilde, I’m dining at the club tonight, so I’ll just take something light now. Some bread and cheese, and some of that duck pâté, if there’s any left.”

“ _Dining out, Monsieur?_ ”

Even Raoul could hear the disapproval in her voice. He could just imagine how angry his father might be, being spoken to in such a tone, by a _servant_ , no less!

“Is there a problem, Hilde?” His father’s voice was like ice.

“Begging your pardon, Monsieur, it’s just that your son-”

“Well, what of him? If my idiot son chooses to run off, should that stop me living my life? You think I’m heartless, not to be chasing after him? Well, that boy has never given me anything but trouble.”

Run off? So was that his story?! Well, the truth wouldn’t stay secret for long, now that the servants knew.

“Monsieur, I only meant… well, he’s upstairs, Monsieur.”

Raoul could have laughed. Hilde had just run circles around his father, making him look a fool. Unfortunately, his mirth was short-lived. He could hear his father climbing the stairs. Even his footsteps sounded disapproving.

He stood up straight, head held high as his father entered the room.

“What are you doing here, boy?”

He sneered, taking a step closer to Raoul.

“Are you a disobedient wife, as well as a disobedient son? Was your husband too much for you to take, hmm? Well, don’t expect me to hide you. I’m not planning on giving back that money, so if he comes here to claim you, I won’t hesitate to hand you straight back over.”

His sneer grew even nastier.

“I’m sure he’ll have a nice punishment lined up for you. Maybe he’ll be able to teach you your place, have you snivelling at his feet.”

Raoul raised his chin higher, and looked at his father coldly.

“I’ve only come to collect my belongings. You don’t have to worry, I’m not intending to stay.”

“Oh? And where are you planning on running off to? You’re a fool if you think I’m going to give you the money to live by.”

Raoul didn’t answer immediately. He walked over to the wardrobe, and reached right to the back, retrieving a stack of music sheets, and a violin that he had bought in secret a few years ago. He packed them carefully in the trunk, then straightened up and stared defiantly at the Comte.

“I’m going back to my husband, of course.”

The Comte actually laughed at this. He had a horrible, venomous laugh.

“Oh, I should have known you’d enjoy yourself! You like being his pet, do you?”

“Well it’s a damn sight better than being here!” Raoul exclaimed, slamming the lid on the trunk, and heaving it off the ground.

He didn’t look back as he carried it down to the carriage, leaving his father fuming and staring at an empty room.

 

 


	7. In Which Raoul Meets the Opera Ghost

_“Well it’s a damn sight better than being here!” Raoul exclaimed, slamming the lid on the trunk, and heaving it off the ground._

_He didn’t look back as he carried it down to the carriage, leaving his father fuming and staring at an empty room._

 

* * *

 

Michel met him at the top of the stairs, rushing to take the heavy trunk from him, grumbling under his breath that Vicomtes were not meant to carry their own luggage.

Raoul, stunned by his own bold behaviour, said nothing, just followed meekly behind. 

Almost all of the staff followed him outside, wanting to wave him off, or more accurately, wanting to observe the spectacle first hand.

He was climbing into the carriage when his father came storming out the door, his face red with anger.

“That’s right,” he shouted, “run back home to your master, you good-for-nothing whore! I hope he…”

Raoul didn’t find out what his father hoped for him, as he slammed the carriage door shut, blocking his father out mid-sentence. But seeing that young Mariah had fainted dead away upon hearing his words, Raoul couldn’t imagine that it was anything nice.

As the carriage jolted into motion, he let out the breath he had been holding. He slowly unclenched his balled-up fists to find that not only his hands, but his whole body was shaking.

The journey back to the Opera House seemed to take forever. In that time, Raoul managed to calm himself slightly. At least, he had stopped shaking so violently. He still felt that he had a rather weak grasp on his composure, however.

The driver helped him carry the trunks through a side door, and up into Box Five, as Erik had recommended, and Raoul tipped him rather generously before letting him leave.

Erik was obviously not finished attending to his “matters”, as he had called them. They had arranged to meet in Box Five once they were both ready, but Raoul could not wait for Erik to return.

The unexpected meeting with his father had left him feeling rattled, and he needed nothing more than to see Erik’s face, to throw himself into the other man’s arms and let himself be held.

Peering over the edge of the box, Raoul could see that the managers were both on stage trying to calm the chorus, many of whom were in hysterics, and several of whom were covered in what Raoul hoped was paint.

It seemed like as good a place as any to start looking for Erik.

As Raoul approached the stage, he heard La Carlotta’s ear-splitting shrieks, and he ducked behind a large wooden elephant just in time to avoid her as she stormed off stage.

Looking up, he could see paint still dripping slowly from the catwalk. He made for the closest ladder and started up.

He had barely reached the top, just able to see onto the walkway stretching over the stage, when he spotted Erik’s highly-polished shoes. He smiled, and tilted his head upwards to see the rest of the man, but his smile fell away immediately as saw a man in Erik’s grasp.

One of Erik’s thin, elegant hands was wrapped around the man’s throat, and he was holding the man over the edge of the catwalk, his feet kicking in mid-air. To Raoul’s horror, he noticed a noose under Erik’s fingers, around the poor man’s neck. The other end was secured to the railing on the catwalk.

For a single heartbeat, Raoul remained frozen, transfixed by the vicious sneer on Erik’s face. Then, as he threw the man violently away from himself to his death, Erik’s eyes suddenly met Raoul’s.

Raoul barely registered the sudden panic in Erik’s expression before he was scrambling back down the ladder, throwing himself into a run. He pushed people aside in his desperation to get away, and ran as hard as he could, letting his feet carry him where they would.

After mere minutes, he found himself back in Box Five, breathless and terrified. He fell to his hands and knees, bile rising in his throat, eyes streaming. He retched and coughed, trying desperately not to throw up, and feeling certain he would lose the battle.

Once he was reassured that he wasn’t going to empty his stomach onto the carpet, he crawled to the far corner of the box, and sat huddled there, his knees drawn to his chest, and tears still pouring down his face.

To think that only half an hour ago he had wanted nothing more than to be in Erik’s arms. And now the thought of seeing the man made him want to run and never stop running. Earlier, he had longed for Erik. Now he longed for Philippe. What he wouldn’t give for his brother to sweep him up in his arms and hold him tightly, the way he had when they were children and Raoul had been upset.

But it could not happen. He might never see Philippe again.

Raoul kept his eyes fixed on the door, waiting for the Phantom to find him, his heart thundering in his chest. He did not know what would happen once he did.

Yesterday, he had met the man. Now he had seen the monster.

All too soon, Erik appeared in the doorway, breathless, as if he too had run here. He remained unmoving in the doorway, towering above Raoul, his eyes wide, unblinking.

Raoul stared back. He kept his mouth clamped shut, determined not to sob or whimper. Determined not to beg for his life.

Slowly, Erik knelt down, still in the doorway, and stretched out a hand towards Raoul, as if he were trying to coax a nervous cat from under a table.

“Raoul, darling.” He began softly, breaking off when Raoul flinched and buried his face in his knees.

“Raoul,” he whispered again, “I am sorry that you saw that. You must be terrified of me now. You must be so scared.”

His voice was soothing, cajoling.

“But you do not need to be scared of me, darling. Raoul, look at me, please.”

Raoul raised his head, ever so slightly, and fixed large, lost eyes on Erik.

“Raoul, I will never hurt you. There is nothing you could do to make me wish you harm. I will never be angry enough to hurt _you_. I am impulsive and brutal and dangerous. You have seen that today. But _I will never harm you_.”

Raoul, against all logic, believed him. Hesitantly, he wiped the tears from his face, sniffling slightly, and pushed himself to his feet.

Erik rose to his feet as well, and in two great strides, crossed the Box, and gathered Raoul into his arms.

Raoul stiffened, wanting to scream out and throw this man away from him. How could he ever have felt secure in his embrace? He forced himself to stay still as Erik rubbed circles into his back, dropped kisses onto his hair. He was still murmuring words of comfort, although Raoul was barely listening to them, all his concentration going into fighting the urge to flee. He had started to sob again, his tears soaking into Erik’s shirt.

Eventually, when he had begun to relax, unavoidably soothed by Erik’s gentle and repetitive manner, and tired out from his bout of crying, Raoul felt Erik begin to pull away. He clutched feebly at Erik’s waist, not wanting to be dragged back to face reality so soon.

Erik tilted Raoul’s face towards him.

“You are scared, and you are shocked. Come home with me now, and rest, and once you are less emotional, I will explain myself to you.”

Emotional. Yes, that was one of Raoul’s many faults. His father had berated him for it often enough.

Raoul nodded stiffly, and as Erik led the way back to the little house on the lake, Raoul followed dutifully behind.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well finally!! It's been ages since I've written anything, but maybe I've got the ball rolling again now.  
> Thank you to everyone who left comments, they are much appreciated, and I promise I won't leave it so long between chapters again!


	8. In Which Erik Explains A Few More Things

_“You are scared, and you are shocked. Come home with me now, and rest, and once you are less emotional, I will explain myself to you.”_

_Emotional. Yes, that was one of Raoul’s many faults. His father had berated him for it often enough._

_Raoul nodded stiffly, and as Erik led the way back to the little house on the lake, Raoul followed dutifully behind._

 

* * *

 

Raoul stared blankly at the fire roaring in the grate. The sound of the flames seemed deafening to him. He was wrapped in several blankets, curled in an armchair with his feet tucked under him. A cup of tea was cradled between his hands, with the rest of the pot sat on the table beside him, but he had barely touched a drop.  

Erik was sitting in the armchair opposite, his eyes fixed on Raoul.

He had brought Raoul home, steered him into the sitting room, and settled him into the chair, with blankets and tea and a blazing fire. He had tried to bring Raoul out of his shocked state with gentleness and warmth.

Raoul didn’t feel warm, he felt numb.

He understood, now, why they called him the Phantom. He understood, finally, why everyone was so afraid of this deadly man. He had seen the Opera Ghost looking out from his husband’s eyes.

He had thought him kind, but he was nothing more than a murderer.

He had _enjoyed_ it, Raoul realised with a shudder. There had been a look of wild triumph on his face as he had condemned a man to his death.

How could he embrace this man again? How could he live his life alongside him?

How could he refuse?

Raoul had to resign himself to his fate. Whether he liked it or not, he belonged to this man. For all Erik had talked of his freedom to leave, Raoul knew the truth. He had nowhere else to go.

He felt hollow.

Finally, he dragged his eyes away from the fire, and looked at the other man.

“Why?” he asked, hoarsely.

Erik didn’t answer immediately. He pushed himself to his feet and walked to the fireplace, leaning against the mantelpiece with his head bowed.

Raoul didn’t ask again. He closed his eyes, and waited. He was not entirely sure that he wanted the answer.

At length, Erik spoke.

“To understand why, you must know a secret that is not mine to share. I had not wished to reveal it to anyone, but I promised myself at the beginning of this arrangement, that whatever you asked, I would answer. I swore I would keep no secrets from you.”

He crossed the short distance, and dropped to his knees in front of Raoul’s chair.

“The man’s name was Buquet. Joseph Buquet. He held the position of Chief of the Flies. He was a coarse and vile man.”

“So you killed him.” Raoul said, bitterness colouring his voice.

“No. I let him live.”

Raoul stared, confused.

“For a long time, I let him live. He had not given me enough cause to kill him. He drank and gambled, and leered at the girls. Many men are like him, and they receive no punishment for it. So Joseph Buquet lived.”

“Until?” Raoul prompted, in a whisper.

“This morning, as I was surveying my Opera House, little Meg Giry tracked me down. She brought another girl from the ballet with her, and urged her to tell me her story. She told me that Buquet had cornered her, three days ago, and forced himself on her.”

Raoul’s eyes widened in horror.

“I will not hesitate to kill, but I will not do so without reason.” Erik said, firmly.

Erik didn’t speak again, only watched him with a steady gaze.

Eventually Raoul spoke in a small, guilty voice.

“I’m glad you killed him. I only wish-”

His voice trailed into silence.

“You wish that you hadn’t seen it?” Erik asked, wryly.

“No,” Raoul whispered. “I wish that I hadn’t seen the look in your eyes.”

They sat in silence for a long time before Raoul finally spoke again.

“Who was-”

“Do not ask me the girl’s name.” Erik cut in, sharply. “Let her keep her dignity.”

Raoul was almost tempted to ask anyway, to see if Erik really would answer any question he put to him, but propriety won out.

He nodded, stiffly.

“I understand why you did it.” It was the best he could offer.

Erik reached out and took Raoul’s hand, rubbing his thumb across his knuckles gently.

When he moved to pull the young man into an embrace, Raoul let him.

They went to bed, a few hours later, and unlike the night before, they lay as far from each other as they could, at the very edges of the bed.

When Raoul woke, however, it was to find that he had migrated to Erik’s side of the bed. Erik, on the other hand, was nowhere in sight.

Raoul groaned, sleepily, and pushed himself out of bed, surprised when he saw his three trunks lined up neatly against the wall. Had Erik carried them all the way down here by himself?

In the cold light of morning, he felt much more charitable towards Erik. He had known from the beginning that the man was no saint. He was unpredictable and wild, but he had also shown himself to be loving and honest and affectionate. Raoul marvelled at how quickly he felt inclined to forgive Erik’s reprehensible actions.

He opened one of the trunks and pulled out a set of clothes and some toiletries, taking them to the washroom to dress.

When he emerged, fully dressed, and blessedly clean-shaven, Erik was waiting for him, leaning against the wall with a convincing display of nonchalance.

“Would you like to unpack?” Erik said.

 _‘Are you staying?’_ was what he was really asking.

Raoul smiled.

“Yes, and if you had nothing else planned for the morning, I could use your help.”

He knew Erik would not refuse, not when yesterday had cast their future together into such uncertainty.

In answer, Erik strolled to the nearest trunk and threw open the lid.

Raoul’s violin sat on top of several neatly folded coats.

Erik picked it up reverently, along with the small stack of sheet music that Raoul had packed, and glanced up, meeting Raoul’s eyes.

“Perhaps we are not so different.” Raoul murmured, smiling shyly. He took the violin from Erik’s hands, and set it aside carefully.

As they worked, hanging Raoul’s clothes in the armoire, carrying his books into the sitting room and finding space for them on the shelves, they fell into a comfortable routine. They kept up a steady conversation, discussing the new Opera, and laughing at Carlotta’s latest tantrums. As the morning wore on, they found themselves moving closer and closer to each other, and Raoul delighted every time their shoulders or hands brushed.

Erik seemed reluctant to let himself touch Raoul too often. Raoul was determined to change that.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suck at writing. *rolls on the floor in despair*  
> I need to write some oneshots to get my creativeness working again, but the ideas well is dry :(  
> And I have this unquenchable urge to make Erik into a more decent person, I just can't leave well enough alone.


	9. An apology

So after roughly a year, I finally have been gifted a new laptop!

I'm really sorry to say that in that time, I've moved away from Erik/Raoul. I just don't feel the same pull towards the pairing.

Partly this is because I've found myself unable to go to the theatre as much as I used to, and therefore have been filling my time with things other than musical soundtracks. 

Also I've left my father's house, and since I no longer need to spend hours hiding away in my room, I'm not spending time writing, and have lost the passion for it.

If anyone has any ideas to coax me back into the fandom/pairing, I want to know about them. Otherwise, I'll probably just post the old half-finished stuff sitting on my harddrive, and call it a lost cause.

I'm so sorry to everyone who has been reading, I can't tell you how grateful I've been that you've stuck with me, and for your constant encouragement.


End file.
